These Five Years
by dracoredeemed
Summary: Harry hurts because he loved. Draco loved even though it hurt. Inspired by Team Fanon World Cup artwork. H/D Slash. Warnings for dub-con, very angsty.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is dedicated to Lillithium, whose artwork by the same name inspired this story

**A/N: This is for Team Fanon, whose artwork for the 2008 H/D World Cup by the same name inspired this story (Title used with permission) Scroll to the end for the link. Read the story first, then view the art :-)**

**My deepest thanks to Aandune for being my sounding board and my beta.**

These Five Years

**By dracoredeemed**

The setting sun cast long shadows across the deserted street as Draco watched from inside the cafe. Being early summer, it was almost nine, long past the commuting rush and the bustle of after work shopping and errands that usually gave the street a festive air. But now it was quiet. Lights were beginning to flicker on behind the windows in the buildings that lined up against each other like variegated sentinels, guarding their inhabitants from the harsh outside world. The soft glow behind sheer fabric, the rigid lines of light haphazardly splitting the slats of a blind pulled down too hastily, the tarnished brass knocker resting against the worn and flaking paint of a door; these were the signs of lives lived, evidence of the purpose of the daily exercise of personal choice, of people who came and went, and came back again. Draco gazed out the window, his eyes raking over the details of the houses, before falling back to the cup he held in his hand. He swirled the dregs of his coffee around, watching as the tiny grains swept up the sides of the cup and stuck there, then set the cup on its saucer. Dropping some coins on the table, he stood and made his way to the exit.

Although the day had been warm, he felt a slight chill as he stood on the pavement, and hitched the collar of his jacket up slightly against it. A streetlight flickered to life above him and he looked up at it, then across the street to an iron lace gate, which stood slightly ajar. Hesitating only momentarily, he walked deliberately towards it, pushing it open and letting it spring shut again behind him as he climbed the stairs to the familiar landing. Two knocks, and the sound of shoes on a wooden floor, and his breath caught in his chest just for a moment. The door opened and a man was silhouetted by the light. They both stood for a moment without speaking and then the man stepped back and Draco stepped across the threshold and into the warm lit hallway.

"I wasn't expecting you."

"You never do, Harry."

Harry turned and walked down the hall, stopping at the door to the living room. "Make yourself at home. I'll make some tea." He turned toward the kitchen.

"I could use something stronger."

Harry stopped and turned back. "Wine?"

"Please." Draco walked over to the bay window and pulled the curtain aside. The streetlights were all aglow now and casting an eerie patina on the street below. Scanning the road once again, he dropped the curtain and moved to the couch, taking his place at the end closest to the fireplace, which allowed him a view of the entire room.

Harry came back with two glasses and handed him one before sitting at the other end of the couch and leaning back against the cushions.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"The same. And you?"

Harry shrugged. "Can't complain. How are your potions experiments coming along?"

Draco looked down at his glass for long moments, then took a sip, carefully savouring the cool liquid as it trickled down his throat. "They're going well, thanks. I think I may have developed an alternative to Veritaserum that has fewer side effects."

"I always knew you would be ground-breaking."

Draco looked up at the portrait on the opposite wall. It was a little crooked, out of place against the others, which hung parallel to each other. "Are you going abroad for the summer?"

"No. I am staying to help with the preparations."

Draco stiffened slightly, shifting against the pillows. "How are things at Hogwarts?"

"The same as it always is." Harry leaned forward and placed his glass on the coffee table.

Draco continued to stare into his own glass, swirling it slightly and watching as the smooth red liquid slid against the sides in swells before circling back and spiralling slowly toward the centre. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, then leaned back against the pillows and lowered his lids slightly, feeling his breath escape him with a soft sigh.

Harry leant across the space between them and put his hand on Draco's knee. "I've missed you."

Draco's eyes slid shut and he laid his head back against the cushion of the couch, his glass now resting against his knee. He could feel his breath move in and out of his lungs, his chest rising and falling in an inexorable rhythm. The air was warm inside, but he still felt a slight chill. He breathed deeply, as if to draw the warm air into him, and tried to relax against the soft edges of the couch. His long, lean legs were stretched out and his hands rested on his thighs. The touch against his knee was warm, inviting, welcoming. Draco involuntarily moved his thigh into the touch and the hand pressed against him in recognition.

"Draco…."

"Don't say anything. Please."

The hand settled possessively against his thigh and Draco let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Harry…."

Suddenly, Harry was pressing against him, his hands drawing up to cup Draco's face as he leaned in to touch their lips together.

Draco surrendered to the kiss as if he had no power to oppose it. As, indeed, he did not. Harry claimed his mouth, gently at first, then more possessively, drawing Draco's lips into his own as if they were a long-awaited tonic for an illness he had been battling all his life. Draco felt as though he was sinking as a hot velvet tongue pushed against his own. He let it in, let it control him, torture the insides of his mouth with its sweet wetness. He was drowning in the domineering mouth that tasted him, engulfed him, sinking into its depths as it swallowed him up, overwhelming in its burning intensity. But he was a willing victim of the onslaught and he would have succumbed a thousand times over had he the chance.

All too soon, the kiss ended and Harry pulled back, his eyes searching—for what, Draco didn't know. They gazed at each other in silence for long minutes, their laboured breaths slowly easing back into normal rhythm.

"Why did you come back?"

"Why do I ever come back?"

"That's not an answer."

Draco looked away then. "You know the answer."

Harry's head fell forward slightly, his hair brushing gently against Draco's cheek. "Stay with me."

Draco felt his heart pounding in his chest. It was always the same. He knew it; he expected it. Yet it still made his chest constrict with pain. How could he stay? His path was as unalterable and relentless as the rushing tide, its current always drawing him back into its swirling black depths. If he looked up often enough, he could see the light above him, dancing across the water, rippling and then fading in a never ending configuration with the universe that was just beyond his grasp. He'd tried reaching for it once or twice, only to be sucked back down into the ocean's graveyard that was his life.

When he looked back, he found Harry's eyes raking over him again, searching his face for some kind of acquiescence or even just recognition. But he couldn't give it. It was there, just beneath the surface, always threatening to raise its head into the light as if responding to a siren's call, but he pushed it back and it disappeared without a trace.

He looked into Harry's eyes and willed him to understand.

Gently moving away, Draco stood up from the couch, pulling Harry with him. Then he turned and walked towards the door and into the hallway. When he reached the stairs, he made his way up them without looking back. The light on the stairs was dim and the upper floor was in darkness, save for streams of light filtering in between the drapes on the windows, casting sporadic patterns across the wall.

Harry's bedroom wasn't large but it had an air of comfort, of welcome. Draco knew it well, though he had been there barely a dozen times these five years past. The wool rug was soft under his feet, blocking the sounds of his footsteps as he crossed the room to the window. Drawing back the drapes, he stopped for a minute to gaze down at the street, the light filtering through the sheer lace blind dappling across his features. The street was still empty and there was a light misty rain falling, coating the outside world in a blurry haze.

Draco turned his head when Harry kissed the nape of his neck. Strong arms surrounded him and a hard chest pressed against his back. He sighed and hugged his own arms around those that held him in their embrace. Soft lips pressed against his neck, then his ear, and he leaned back and closed his eyes.

It hadn't always been like this; soft, tender, welcoming. Kisses like butterflies against his skin and hands that caressed lovingly, adoringly, inviting him into their cosy warmth. His kisses, his embrace always envelop protectively. But once, they were cold and hard, drawing blood and bruising in their passion and anger.

_Five years ago you pinned me to your bed and took me by force._

_You hitched my legs on your shoulders and tore me apart._

_I knew._

_I knew I'd love you no matter how deeply it hurts._

_No matter how hopeless it feels…._

"_Draco…"_

"…_why, Potter?"_

"…_to keep you. With me."_

But he hadn't stayed then. His departure had been as inescapable as time itself, and he had walked away, broken, bleeding, the voice of vengeance ringing in his ears.

_Your people murdered my father._

_I'll take vengeance on every one of you._

The words had ripped him apart from the inside; were far more damaging than being torn apart physically. They dripped with the bile of a thousand deaths; more bitter, more telling than the seeping blood and semen that had trickled down his legs; more aching than the pain that ripped his insides in two. That physical pain had been welcomed, experienced for all it was, then absorbed, retreated. But the pain of leaving was a weight that hung around his soul forever, scraping and grinding against his heart, leaving it red raw.

_Have I not loved you enough?_

_Enough to stop you going back to Voldemort?_

…_or is love not enough?_

Love _was_ enough. It was enough to keep him strong; enough to soothe the red raw pain of that dead weight; enough to keep him coming back. But it wasn't enough for Harry.

…_tell me Draco. Tell me what to do._

Draco sighed as he leaned back against the strong warm chest.

_You're doing it, Harry…._

--

**A/N: See Team Fanon's artwork here: ****hdworldcup./teamfanon/thesefiveyears.html**


	2. Chapter 2

bThese Five Years

**These Five Years**

**Chapter 2**

Harry leaned in and breathed the heady scent of the pale neck. Though he had barely known the touch of his lover's skin these past five years, he would have recognised that scent anywhere. It filled him and surrounded him. It was home to him and he revelled in it, nuzzling and breathing deeply as if he could draw its very essence into himself, to keep there forever.

Sliding his hands around the slim waist, his chest warm against the angular back, he drew the other man closer to him. His lips brushed soft skin, goose flesh appearing as the fine hairs stood on end at the touch. Fine hair tickled his nose as he moved his mouth around to nibble an earlobe. This was familiar, yet not. The taste, the smell, the feel, were etched on his soul, but they were an epitaph, a melancholy sonnet dedicated to the part of himself that died every time Draco left. Even as he lost himself in the sensations, he shivered as he felt the cold hand of defeat curl around his heart and squeeze. Closing his eyes, he sighed deeply, trying to ease the chill inside and reminding himself that he was here, now, and this was all that mattered.

Draco turned his head slightly, as if the sigh had drawn him, and leaned his head back against Harry's shoulder. He felt warm under Harry's hand where it lay against his chest, gently smoothing the muscles through the thin cloth of his shirt. He shivered again as a cool hand slid over his, the light touch as electric as a flash of lightning against his skin.

"You're cold…." Harry brought his other hand up and gently rubbed the long fingers.

"Mmmm…. It's cool out."

"Let me warm you." Harry pulled him even closer, and Draco's breath hitched as Harry sucked and then lightly bit his exposed neck. He had waited so long for this—he always waited. Each time wishing, hoping, but never daring to believe that his love would ever come back. The fear and uncertainty was a deadly delicious ache that had taken up residence in Harry's chest all those years ago, and it smouldered there, permeating everything, every day, every hour, only flaring to life when finally, ifinally/i, he would open the door and relief would flood over him. It was always surreal – like a parallel reality – when the heavy wood creaked open and Draco was standing there bathed in streetlight. He would find himself gazing into sultry grey eyes that always looked as if they were burdened with the world's secrets, with hidden depths he would never be allowed to fathom.

"That feels good."

Harry smiled gently through his kisses as the other man relaxed and melted against him, the pale neck arching even further back to allow his mouth more access. He took advantage of the gesture, continuing to stroke the cold fingers until they began to warm, to move gently against his caress. When they curled over and locked into his own, he held them there, his grip tightening as if that could prevent them from ever escaping again. He nuzzled Draco's neck as he felt the pressure of his grip returned.

"Come to bed."

For a moment, he wondered if the other man had heard him, so still was he in Harry's arms. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the slow beating of a heart beneath his fingers. Harry lifted his head a little to gaze at his lover's profile. The eyes were closed, pale lashes resting against even paler cheeks, and the lips were slightly parted. He looked beautiful like this, almost peaceful, and Harry wondered what his other life was like, that it could cause those calm features to tense with the pain and sadness that was just as quickly shuttered whenever he was in Harry's presence. Dropping his eyelids, he sighed again and drew Draco even closer, as if his very presence here and now could provide him with protection from the world without.

Draco opened his eyes in response and lifted his head, tugging at the hand that held his so tightly as he moved away, drawing Harry behind him. He turned when he reached the bed and leaned forward to run his hands up under the fabric of Harry's shirt, reverently smoothing his fingers over the ridges of muscles, leaving tingling trails as they lit nerve endings on fire. Harry' eyes closed again of their own accord as the hands teased lightly over his skin, his stomach muscles clenching as the fingers eventually skated down and under the waistband of his trousers. Letting out a ragged breath, he opened his eyes, but Draco was already leaning further in to claim his mouth. It was tentative, not-quite-sure, and the steel band around Harry's heart tightened with trepidation that this would be the day, the time, the moment, when Draco would decide that he couldn't do it any longer; that he would go away and never come back.

He whimpered softly at the thought and reached up under the fine blond strands to caress the back of Draco's neck, his touch a desperate plea for one more time, always one more, his lips pressing urgently now in complete supplication. It was all he had to give. God knows, he had searched desperately for ways to make Draco stay. He had needled and cajoled, seduced, worshipped, pleaded and even threatened, but none of it made a dent in the armour of his lover's resolve.

Then the hands were gone for a moment, replaced by the warmth of a lean torso, which pressed against him intimately, chest to chest, hip to hip, knee to knee, and the hands were around his waist, crossing over each other at the back and pulling him in possessively. A whisper of breath ghosted over his ear.

"Hold me, Harry"

"Come here…. Is that better?" Harry slid his hands up and down Draco's back, and the latter dropped his head to rest in the crook of Harry's neck.

"Mmmmm…."

"You're shivering."

"And you're talking too much."

Harry suddenly felt his shirt being lifted up and over his shoulders. Stepping back he raised his arms and pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, letting it drop to the floor. Draco ran his fingers down the front of Harry's bare chest, coming to rest at his belt. He looked up then, and Harry held his gaze as he let Draco slip the belt off and unzip his pants. Harry grabbed his hand as he began slipping the fabric down over his hips.

"My wand." He reached into his pocket and retrieved the Holly and Phoenix feather wand, placing it carefully on the nightstand. When he turned back, Draco's own shirt was already unbuttoned and he was making fast work of his trousers.

Harry toed off his shoes and stepped out of his own trousers and boxers.

"Here, let me help you." He pushed Draco back onto the bedcovers and bent over to remove his shoes and socks, caressing each delicately veined foot as Draco leaned back on his elbows to watch. With footwear removed, he reached up and pulled down trousers and pants both together, nudging Draco to lift his hips so he could ease the fabric over his hips and erection. Draco watched him, a glint of affection interrupting his gaze for a moment as Harry struggled with the pants when they caught on his ankles.

"Such finesse."

Harry looked up in time to see a smirk pulling at the corners of his lover's mouth. He growled and yanked at the offending garment, pulling Draco's legs up and sending him sprawling back, his legs flopping heavily back onto the bed when the pants finally broke free. Harry tossed them to the floor and crawled up over the prone man, his eyes glinting with something more predatory.

"Such wanton recklessness…." He raised his eyebrows and smirked back before crushing their mouths and bodies together, pushing Draco more deeply into the bed and almost devouring him with mouth and hands. After several moments he pulled back breathlessly. "One might almost think you had a death wish, taunting a Gryffindor like that."

"You fall for the bait every time, you big brute."

Harry raised his eyebrows at that and burst out laughing. The tension in the room immediately dissipated as Draco's smirk turned into a grin. Lifting his arms up, he stretched them along the bed over his head and looked up at Harry, his eyes on fire.

"So, how do you intend to punish me?" Lifting his hips, he ground himself against Harry's erection and Harry groaned involuntarily, leaning in again to cover that soft peach mouth with his own.

"I think we both know who punishes whom here," he whispered against Draco lips.

Draco's eyes grew wide as he caught his breath. Instantly, Harry stilled.

"I – Harry, I can't… You know I can't –" His face went white as Harry leaned back and gazed at him.

Suddenly, he was filled with remorse and he closed his eyes in shame. "I know… I… I'm so sorry, I was just teasing." He let his head drop onto Draco's shoulder and waited, barely able to breathe, until he felt the tension in the other man ease a little. Sighing almost imperceptibly with relief, he gently kissed Draco's collarbone, then flicked his tongue out to caress the hollow of his neck, before placing more soft kisses across his shoulder and up his throat. Draco arched his neck back and Harry continued to scold himself as he moved his lips along the delectable expanse of skin. He didn't deserve even this little bit of heaven. God knows, Draco could have chosen not to come back – it was not Harry's place to judge, or to demand, or to scold, when he knew that Draco was giving him all he had to give. He didn't understand it – would never, he reminded himself resignedly – but what did that matter? Draco was here, now, and he was his.

"Harry…?"

"Mmmmm?"

When nothing further was forthcoming, Harry lifted his head again, bringing a hand up at the same time to brush some stray strands of hair away from Draco's eyes. He looked at his lover questioningly.

Draco turned his head to the side and ran his hand up Harry's arm, gently caressing the muscles. His face was slightly drawn, his forehead tense, as if he were fighting with himself over what to say. Not taking his eyes away from where they watching as he stroked Harry's bulging bicep, he finally sighed. "You know I don't… belong here."

Harry closed his eyes and fought against the pain that threatened to overcome him as his chest clenched tighter than ever.

"Shhh… I understand," he lied.

Draco turned back to face him, his eyes searching. Harry gazed back at him steadily, willing the beast in his chest to heel. He could barely breathe. He wanted this, whatever it was or wasn't. It was his lifeline, his sanity; a world where they were just there for each other, no matter how fleeting. He cursed himself yet again for his thoughtless words – how could he take this so lightly? This was his world.

Finally, Draco's face softened and he moved his hand up to caress Harry's stubbled cheek. Then, cupping the back of Harry's neck, he lifted his face, Harry meeting him half-way, and the awkward moment dissolved in the touch of their lips as they languidly slid over each other, tongues entwining and breath mingling until they were both panting with heat.

Draco tasted like nothing on earth and Harry devoured him like a starving man, feasting on his neck, his pale throat, his hairless chest, the deceptively soft stomach, while all the while Draco's breath hitched and gasped, punctuated by soft moans that nearly drove Harry to the brink of distraction. Moving to the baby-soft skin of his inner thigh, Harry kissed it tenderly, then licked a line up to the crease of his arse. He stopped there to breathe in the musky scent and Draco groaned and writhed as his warm breath stirred the soft curls even as it caressed the base of his cock. Harry buried his nose in the curls and breathed deeply, taking the scent into himself and committing it yet again to memory. Such memories were all that kept him company on the nights when despair overcame him and he found himself sitting in the dark of his living room, his glass of wine forgotten as it tipped in his hand, his heart crushed by a crown of thorns until it bled out of him, leaving him empty, his dull eyes peering unseeingly out into the deserted street.

If he could remember this scent, this life that writhed beneath him and made him feel so alive, so full of love and hope, then maybe he could one more time reach into himself and rip out the thorns; will himself to live again, if not to dream. So he breathed long and deep. Then he tasted and was rewarded with trembling hands clutching at his head, dragging fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, begging for more, begging for Harry to take him further, beyond pleasure, until he burst with the sheer force of his body's response. It was electrifying – that he could make this body, this pleasure, this ecstasy bend to his will, even as he gave up himself and became will-less, an object of bliss for his lover's gratification.

Afterwards, they lay entangled in each other, Harry's head on his lover's chest, his soft breathing matching the slow rhythm of the heart beating against his ear and his arm draped loosely across the glowing expanse of skin that stretched between Draco's narrow hips. There would be no more words. Not now that they had given themselves to each other with such passion. There_ were_ no words; only glowing skin, and gentle breathing, and tender touches. And in the morning, he would be alone again. He would wake up with the sun playing across his face as the curtains waved in the early morning breeze, and he would reach across to find the pillow empty, the bed cold. And he would roll over and curl up, pulling the blankets up over his head, and pretend that this was okay, that it was enough.

Sighing, Harry lifted his head and placed a chaste kiss on the gentle rise of Draco's chest, before pulling up the blankets and settling back against the pillow. He could already hear the steady rhythm of the other man's breathing as he eased into sleep. Taking one last look, he closed his eyes and reached out under the covers to rest his hand on Draco's thigh. Draco unconsciously moved into the touch, his own hand curling around Harry's arms in a gentle caress, and Harry knew that this would be enough. It had to be.

Tbc…


	3. Chapter 3

bThese Five Years

**These Five Years**

**Chapter 3**

Harry jerked awake with a start, his eyes flying open even as they blinked rapidly against the early morning light. It was just past sunrise, judging from the way the pale yellow light dappled against the curtains as they fluttered at the window; much too early for him to have woken naturally. He rubbed his eyes and tried to shake the fog of slumber from his brain. Something had woken him, but he didn't know if it was some since-forgotten dream or whether he had been startled awake. Turning his head, he noted the rumpled sheets and indented pillow now laying empty beside him, and determinedly looked away to the clock on the nightstand, which showed it was a little after six-thirty. He briefly contemplated rolling over and trying to sleep again, since he didn't have to be at the Ministry until nine, but the thought was interrupted by the muffled sound of scuffling downstairs. Frowning, he sat up abruptly, now wide-awake.

He stilled for a moment, unsure of what he had heard. Glancing again at the sheets next to him, he reached out and stroked the pillow, but it was cool against his hand. Draco must have left sometime earlier, as was his wont. Harry's eyes slid shut as he breathed in the familiar scent that lingered ever so slightly in his nostrils, on his skin, letting out a ragged sigh as he opened them again to search for his robe. Locating it on the hook beside the door, he threw back the bedclothes and hauled himself out of bed, grabbing the robe and pulling it on as he opened the door. He winced as he felt the fabric graze over patches of dried semen still sticking to the hairs of his stomach, but it wasn't in pain. Sliding his hand beneath the robe he stroked the crusty area as if it were soft velvet, the memory of how it got there nudging at the edge of his consciousness, but he refused to succumb to the nostalgic sentiment that threatened to overtake him. Pushing aside thoughts of soft blond strands fanning out over the pillow and long lean thighs wrapping tightly around his waist, he pulled the robe around him and tightened the belt.

His stomach growled as he moved towards the stairs and he turned his attention to thoughts of toast and bacon, accompanied by a steaming pot of tea. He never had time to cook himself a proper breakfast, usually contenting himself with a bowl of cereal or some digestive biscuits with his tea, and the thought of a hot breakfast somehow comforted him, as if he could give himself this, even if he could not have what he really wanted…. But he couldn't think about that. Experience had taught him well how such thoughts could break him in two, slice him right down the middle, and leave him a bleeding wreck of grief and aching hunger of a different sort.

So… breakfast…. Two eggs might be in order, since he hadn't eaten a proper dinner the night before. But his mental preparations were interrupted by the almost imperceptible sound of a click as the front door slid against its frame and the lock found its place.

Glancing over the banister, he frowned and wondered if he was hearing things. Then there was the sound of scuffling again, this time on the front porch, and he bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time, almost skidding as his bare feet touched the wood of the hallway floor and beat a path to the heavy wooden door at its end. He yanked the door open and it bounced back against the rubber stopper, almost crashing shut again before he slipped through it and stood panting on the porch, his eyes raking the garden and street for intruders. The gate was swinging on its hinges and he cast his gaze frantically from it to the street, which seemed deserted. A sharp cry, however, had him sprinting down the garden path and through the gate in time to see a flash of blond struggling against two dark, burly figures at the end of the street, before Disapparating into the crisp morning air. Disregarding his scanty attire and bare feet, he ran down the street at a breakneck speed and stopped at the point where the figures had disappeared, trying to make sense of what he had seen.

There was no mistaking Draco's hair – it was distinctively white-blond, a shade that he didn't think he'd ever seen on anyone else in his life. But Draco had left much earlier, if the cold bed was any indication. Continuing to pant, his breath frosting in the chill air, he scanned the street one more time for clues and then turned and ran back up the footpath and into the house. His wand was still on the nightstand and his first thought was to cast a tracking charm, or at the very least try to determine if there were any magical signatures left at the site of Apparition. But even as he bounded up the garden path and through the open front door, he knew it was already too late for such measures. Even so, he made his way up the stairs and into the bedroom, where he dragged on some jeans and a shirt before grabbing his wand and heading back downstairs to the kitchen, his mind a conglomeration of random ideas about why Draco had been there so late in the morning and who were the two men with whom he had been struggling.

As he made his way back down the stairs, he went back over the events of the morning. Something had woken him – the sound of someone moving downstairs. It may have been just Draco – perhaps he had overslept – but Draco would have stepped quietly and he would have Apparated directly from the house to wherever he was going. He had told Harry so. He remembered how he had tried to convince Draco that he could also Apparate into the house whenever he wanted, but Draco had never taken advantage of the offer, always choosing to knock at the door as if he were a simple acquaintance instead of the love of Harry's life. He rubbed the back of his neck absently as he continued to search his mind for clues as to what was going on. Draco was in trouble, that was for certain – clearly, the men had somehow apprehended Draco inside the house and he had been trying to resist them when they Disapparated.

Harry was at a loss as to what to do, so he moved automatically to the kitchen to make some tea, deciding that the routine sameness of the action might help him think more clearly.

He stopped dead when he saw the kettle already steaming on the stove, its contents bubbling up through the spout and evaporating into the air as it continued to boil away. He looked around sharply, taking in the teapot, tea caddy and two cups sitting on the counter. A milk bottle lay on its side some distance away, its contents dribbling across the counter and down the cupboard doors, forming a pool on the floor below. Draco never stayed for breakfast; never stayed even past daybreak. He was always gone when Harry woke, no matter what time it was. His mind whirled as he watched the milk drip from the cupboard onto the floor. He couldn't comprehend what it all meant. The tea, the cups – two cups – the fact that Draco had been here in his kitchen long after his usual time of departure. It didn't make sense. Turning abruptly, he made his way down the hall and back up the stairs, stoping for a moment in front of the bedroom door. He held his breath as he laid his hand on the knob, his heart pounding in his chest and his pulse pounding in his ears. The door opened and he stole into the room, his feet soundless as he made his way across the carpet to the other side of the bed. He stopped when he saw the shoes under the chair, gazing up to take in the trousers and shirt hanging over its back. Swinging around he scanned the floor for his own clothes where they had fallen the night before. The pants and jeans were there, but the t-shirt was gone.

Harry's breath caught in his throat and he almost sobbed. Clutching the back of the chair for support, he closed his eyes and steadied himself. _Draco…._ And then the tears did come, and he didn't fight them, didn't even feel them as they coursed silently down his cheeks and dripped onto his shirt, staining the collar. Five years, it had been; five long years he had waited, had hoped, had been disappointed. He'd scolded himself each time because he had known what to expect and yet he'd continued to hope. And now…. A tide of emotion washed over him, flooding him, almost drowning him in its intensity, and he sagged into the chair, leaning against its back for support. Encountering the soft fabric of his lover's clothes against his back, he blinked for a moment to clear his vision, then turned and lifted the shirt from its resting place, bringing it up to his face and breathing in the fragrance. The shirt was made of soft cotton and it smelled of the cologne that Draco always wore. Harry nuzzled his face into it as if doing so would provide some aromatic connection between them that would give him insight into his lover's whereabouts. He breathed the scent in deeply as he brushed the fabric over his face and wiped away his tears. It was almost too much… Draco in nothing but boxers and Harry's t-shirt – which would have been much too large on Draco's lean frame – standing by the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil so he could make tea. Tea for two. The morning after. It was all he could do to stop himself almost inhaling the shirt, his mind a confusion of whys and what ifs and his heart clenching with the bittersweet knowledge that he had finally stayed… only to be taken away again.

He had to do something. Those men had been manhandling Draco and, while he hadn't recognised them from behind, he had no doubt of their evil intentions. Draco had never told him about his life, even after Harry had defeated the Dark Lord more than four years earlier, except to discuss what now seemed to be inane trivialities such as Draco's potions experiments and Harry's efforts to rebuild Hogwarts. What good were these memories of snippets of conversation when he had no idea even where Draco lived, or who he worked with, or what kind of people he associated with – though he knew Draco's mother was still alive and living at Malfoy Manor. Whether Draco lived there with her, he had no idea. He seemed to spend a lot of time in London, though Harry couldn't imagine him living in any of the Muggle districts that had become popular with other wizards. He realised with a sigh of despair that he knew very little at all about the man he loved, apart from the taste and feel of every inch of that lithe body and the familiar smell of his cologne. He knew that Draco had gone underground during the war, after his father had been killed – after he had left Harry that first time. He hadn't been there at the final battle, though he may have been involved indirectly for all Harry knew. But when the other Death Eaters had be charged and convicted with war crimes, Draco's name was conspicuously absent.

He sighed again and ran his hands through his unkempt hair as he tried to piece together the little he did know into some sort of coherent pattern. It was all but impossible – the pieces were too abstract, too disjointed. Leaning back against the chair again, he dropped the shirt into his lap and rubbed his face tiredly. He shifted as he felt something poke into his back. Sitting up abruptly, he turned and rifled through the pockets of Draco's pants, which were still hanging over the back of the chair, his fingers closing around a wand, which he pulled out and studied closely. Encouraged, he reached into the other pockets, eventually, after some moments, retrieving a black leather wallet and a small bag of Galleons. He replaced the Galleons back in the pocket, but opened the wallet to inspect inside. There were several Muggle pound notes in one section, a couple of old receipts and a Muggle credit card. There was also a shabby-looking wizard photo of a child that Harry didn't recognise and he looked at it curiously before placing it back in its sleeve. Further inspection revealed more receipts, which Harry unfolded one by one. There was one from Harrod's for clothes, a couple for Muggle restaurants, which surprised him, and a business card from the Grand Hotel. As he unfolded the last piece of paper, he caught his breath – it was a copy of a receipt for an order from a bespoke tailor on Saville Row, and it had an address written out in ink at the top, under Draco's name. The address was for a flat in Kensington.

Harry pocketed the wand and the receipt with the address before returning the wallet to the pocket of Draco's pants. At least he had a place to start.


End file.
